


Cleaning Out My Closet

by The_Muses_of_Mars



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M, Sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-03
Updated: 2019-01-03
Packaged: 2019-10-03 10:56:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,873
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17282756
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Muses_of_Mars/pseuds/The_Muses_of_Mars
Summary: After goodbyes have been said, there's only one thing left to do: clean out your closet.EXCERPT:So. What was in this mysterious, unassuming little box?Noct held it in his lap for a while, his hand resting on the lid as if resting on his beloved’s chest, feeling his heart beating inside. It was roughly the size of a shoebox, but heavier than a pair of shoes should be. At length, the king said, “Forgive me for prying, my love. I just can’t bear the thought of there being some remaining piece of you that wasn’t a part of me.”





	Cleaning Out My Closet

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: song title

King Noctis Lucis Caelum CXIV had spent merely a month mourning the death of his royal chamberlain and spouse of 47 years, Ignis Scientia-Lucis Caelum, when he agreed to comply with the Council’s strong recommendation that he clean out his late husband’s personal effects so that he might get on with his duties as sole sovereign of Lucis. He and Ignis had had no children of their own, and Noctis was now 79 years old, so it was crucial that a new monarch be declared before anything should happen to the current reigning Lucian king. It was hardly unheard of for one spouse to die shortly after the other, and though the actual scientific reasons for the phenomenon were unclear, all who knew King Noctis knew he had loved Ignis beyond the stars, and no one would have been surprised were he to die of grief. He was, therefore, cleaning out his closet.

Ignis had had many, many books in the chamber they shared at the Citadel, their personal parlor used more often as a private library than to entertain visitors. Noctis had decreed the tomes pertaining to matters of state should be transferred to the Royal Archives, while the vast remaining volumes could be donated to the Library of Insomnia.

His clothes were to be donated, as well. The wardrobe tailored to his husband’s tall, lean frame would not serve the broader, slighter stature of the remaining Lucian sovereign. Ignis’s shoes—why on Eos should any one man require so many shoes?—would go to charity, as well.

“I think that’s everythi—oh, what’s this?”

Noctis raised his head to look up from where he slouched in his wheelchair, a contrivance which had become necessary when the degenerative arthritis had spread along his spine and begun to affect the nerves in his lower extremities, and squinted curiously as the young steward who was aiding him—Marcus? Renhaus? Damnation, what was his name, again?—withdrew a white box from the highest shelf in the closet he and Ignis had once shared. He’d thought the top shelf had only been used for spare blankets. What might such a box being doing in a place like that?

“Sire, is this box destined for charity?” the young man asked, climbing down from the stepstool he’d been using to reach spaces Ignis’s long limbs had always been able to extend to naturally.

Noctis ran a hand over his face. The silver stubble on his cheeks felt rough against the lined skin of his palm and he thought it likely his stormy blue eyes would never be dry again. “No,” he decided. When it appeared his assistant was going to open the box, Noct quickly raised his hand to stay the youth’s prying fingers. “No, don’t open it,” he said quickly. “Just put it on the bed and I’ll look at it later.”

“Are you sure, Sire? It’s heavy. I can—”

 _Thomas!_ That was the name. “No, Thomas, that will be all, thank you.” The king heaved a sigh. “I’m tired. Why don’t you leave me now? I’m sure you’ve collected enough donations to satisfy the Council that most every trace of my husband is gone.”

The youth looked stricken. “Your Majesty! I’m sure no one—”

Noct turned his face away and spun his chair back to rotate its direction then wheeled himself out of the bedroom—his only means of storming away now that he could no longer walk. “Ignis is gone, Thomas. And soon I will be, as well, and no one here is going to care about anything but the new king’s coronation.” He looked up at the young man walking with quick strides beside him, his arms loaded down with discarded clothing. “It is what it is. Astrals know I’m ready to retire. I won’t miss this place any more than it will miss me.”

Noctis drew his chair up to his tray in the parlor before a roaring fireplace, where a servant had just set a steaming bowl of soup and cup of tea down for him. He reached for a cloth napkin, tucking the fabric into the neck of his plush crimson robe. “Thank you, Martha. This should help me shake off the chill.”

An elderly woman in a maid uniform curtsied to the king and then left his personal chambers. Thomas stood awkwardly by, but Noctis knew that his tongue was tied and his load was growing heavier the longer he fumbled for something polite to say, so Noct ignored him until he finally went away after giving his king a final deep bow of respect—as best he could with a burden of suits, coats, slacks, and shoeboxes held in his arms.

Noctis ate his supper alone, listening to the clock ticking on the mantle over the fireplace until at six it chimed. Geoffrey, his personal steward, would be along shortly to help him bathe and ready for bed. He had only been spending about four hours each day at work, and hadn’t worked at all since Ignis had passed, nor did he expect to truly work again. He would announce his recommendation for the next monarch at the Council meeting tomorrow, a vote would be taken, and then Noctis would quietly retire.

Ignis had been laid to rest in a sarcophagus built for two, enshrined on the island of Angelgard, and Noct would spend some time there with him before taking up anonymous residence with a caretaker or two where he may no longer be up to fishing, but he could still enjoy the scenery and peace and quiet. Maybe south of Alstor, near Neeglyss Pond. He had time to decide. As long as it took him to pack.

He backed away from the tray table and then wheeled himself back into his bedroom. Thomas had left the white box on the bed as Noct had asked, but when the king went to lift it, he found it was hardly heavy. He snorted. “That kid must think I’m a feeble old man,” he grumbled to himself. He couldn’t walk without some assistance, a walker or another person to lean on _(Ignis…)_ but there was nothing wrong with his arms—and he still had his magic, too, though since he was the last heir of his bloodline, that would die with him.

Noctis looked down at his left hand. On his middle finger, as always, was the ring of the Lucii, given to his ancestors by the gods themselves. He had stipulated in his will that when he passed, it would be donated to the Royal Museum of Lucis in the capital city of Insomnia. Its power would be gone, but he knew that would not stop some future grave robbers from trying to disrupt his peaceful rest with Ignis. No, like Ignis Noct would be buried in his best suit but nothing else, no keepsakes or mementos on his person. Except for the rings on their fourth fingers—matching gold bands engraved with a single word each: _yours._ Although Noct’s body had been claimed by the gods, ordained for a higher purpose, he had wanted Ignis to know to whom his heart belonged. And for Ignis there was nothing more important than Noct. He would have given his life for his king, not because it was his obligation but because he loved him.

Ignis’s ring was still on his finger, where it would remain till they returned to dust. His signature necklace, a silver chain with a skull pendant, which he rarely removed, hung around Noct’s neck now. His spectacles—which, although the ring of the Lucii had healed his defective vision, had become a necessity with the natural redegeneration of his sight with age—rested on the bedside table, and it was them Noctis kissed goodnight now.

So. What was in this mysterious, unassuming little box?

Noct held it in his lap for a while, his hand resting on the lid as if resting on his beloved’s chest, feeling his heart beating inside. It was roughly the size of a shoebox, but heavier than a pair of shoes should be. At length, the king said, “Forgive me for prying, my love. I just can’t bear the thought of there being some remaining piece of you that wasn’t a part of me.”

He removed the lid.

He needn’t have worried. There was nothing inside the box they hadn’t shared together. There were dozens of photographs, thrice as many letters. Noctis removed each cherished item and carefully examined it before moving on to the next.

At the top were more recent correspondences. Noct readily recognized a letter he had sent to Ignis when his lover went to Accordo to negotiate a new trade policy. It was nothing special, as far as he recalled, but then he read the way he had signed the letter—a bit risqué for official royal correspondence, really. He chuckled to himself. Had Ignis hid this to save him any embarrassment, should anyone else read the letter to his husband-ambassador?

The letters read in reverse order, from recent years to distant memories. There were newspaper and magazine clippings from their anniversaries as ruling partners. There was a photo from their wedding he had never seen before, one of them dancing together, lips smiling and eyes seeing nothing but each other. Someone’s finger was taking up a quarter of the frame—not Prompto’s work, then, but some amateur photographer. But it was a beautiful photograph. He set it aside. That one would be used at his own memorial.

The items at the bottom of the box were even older. Tickets from an arcade Noctis had thought he was dragging Ignis to, but apparently he must have enjoyed their weekend excursions even though at the time he’d insisted he’d rather be studying. There was a note Noct had passed Ignis in the hallway in middle school, complaining about a “mean” teacher who had embarrassed Noct in class one day for falling asleep. At the bottom of Noct’s long, rambling rant, Ignis had written in his steadfast and sure, easy-to-read script, “Then, Highness, I shall make him pay.” Noctis laughed out loud. He remembered the insult, but not Ignis’s alleged revenge on his behalf.

The final item in the timeline treasure trove left Noct’s eyes swimming with joyful tears at a long-forgotten memory.

In his own four-year old penmanship he had written, “Noctis luvs Ignis. To-gether 4-ever.” And beneath that, at age six, Ignis had vowed, “I, Ignis Scientia, shall love and protect His Royal Highness, Prince Noctis, ~~till my dying breath~~ forever.”

Their paint-splattered handprints appeared at the bottom of the well-worn, often-folded page, and now Noctis’s teardrops splashed there, too.

“Oh, Ignis,” the king said through a watery smile, “I know you’re waiting for me. I love you. And we will always be at one another’s side.”

Noctis held the precious letter to his heart.

But he was wrong to think his eyes would never dry of tears. By the time Geoffrey had come to take him for his bath, Noctis was unburdened by the decision of who would next wear the crown of Lucis. The peacefully smiling king had gone to be together with his love.


End file.
